Apparently, I’ve been in an accident. I don’t remember it, but a helpful young man who claimed his name was Keith kindly called to remind me about it from his office, which sounded very busy.

Wolverhampton, as it happens. The accident, not Keith’s office. I suspect Keith works far further to the East.

Well, I don’t mind telling you, I was shocked. A traffic collision that I failed to remember? Worse, in Wolverhampton? I have lived my entire life thus far secure in the belief that I have never been to Wolverhampton, far less been rear-ended by a delivery van driven by an unregistered driver.

I asked Keith what he meant exactly by unregistered. He got a bit flustered at this point and said a driver not registered on the register.

Oh yes, said Kevin, who seemed to be fond of changing his name now and then. Well, why not? If people can switch banks, broadband providers and biological genders, then why not throw off the shackles of the birthname and call yourself what you like, l say.

Kevin said: “You, madam, have a claim.” “I do,” I replied. “I am utterly convinced I can lay claim to the throne of Saxony and will go to war to prove it. Do you ride with me, Keith?”

Kevin said, no, he meant for being rear-ended in Wolverhampton. All I had to do was send him some money.

How much? I said. Oh, said Keith, enough to start legal proceedings against this delivery driver careering around Wolverhampton bashing into little old lady drivers. Well, that’s a cause I can sign up to.

“Aha!” I cried. “This accident? Was it in Wolverhampton?” “Yes,” cried Keith with alacrity.

Did it involve a van driver? Big bloke, skinny, nice but dim, hair in a mullet and wore double denim? “Err … yes,” said Kevin. Yes, I said I remember. Whiplash. Terrible.

“We can help,” screamed Kevin, with the air of a rescuer reaching a hand into the abyss to pull me to safety.

“Yes! Terrible whiplash. And short-term memory loss, probably why the name Wolverhampton didn’t register. Although you’d think it would, what with being rear-ended there. Memory loss. Who are you again?”

“Kevin. I’ve been talking to you about your accident in Wolverhampton.”

“The accident where I got memory loss? Yes. What accident?”

“The one you had in Wolverhampton.”

“The one where Dave the van driver hit me? Who are you again?”

He hung up. Dear cold callers. Don’t call me with bogus accident claims when I’m faced with a pile of paperwork the size of a mid-range Alp and looking for any excuse to faff about.

Our tumble dryer had stopped doing its job. To me, this was a clue to call a man who could fix it. To my husband, this was a call to man up for him to fix it. Cue icy stand off in kitchen, me for the fixer option, him for the self-fixer option. He won, I sighed, and started to look for a new tumble dryer.

He watched Youtube and then disemboweled the tumble dryer on the kitchen floor.

Every now and then the door would open and he would announce he would need his backthreaded ratchet overhanded spanner. I feared the worst.